


Possessing an Angel

by ImhereImQuire



Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Other, Possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImhereImQuire/pseuds/ImhereImQuire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Narcissus watches Asher during the daytime. Watches and enjoys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possessing an Angel

For a moment Narcissus felt the urge to cry. Utterly ridiculous. Asher had done this every night for how long? Four centuries? Five? And every night he had rose again. So why this sudden fear that he might not return from wherever sleeping vampires went, that he might not live again?  
  
After a few moments of this melodrama the were tentatively kissed the lifeless body beneath his own. So cold in comparison to his own, It was as though blood had simply stopped in his veins, nothing circulating, all still. His skin had taken on the hardness of the dead, and yet he remained so beautiful Narcissus could not take his eyes off him. Not even death could rob him of that loveliness.   
  
Touching him once simply wasn’t enough though. Narcissus had had to spend an hour leant over him, stroking the length of his body with the backs of his fingers as though to touch him properly might shatter him. Beauty, poetry and art all in one, the hyena didn’t know whether he wanted to make love to him or display him in a high-end art gallery. In the end he settled for simply sitting, gazing with the expression of unspoilt and uncynical wonder that one would never have thought the notorious and deviant Oba capable of. It was beyond his will though, Narcissus was dazzled as he lay there and might have spent all day simply resting at the other’s side were it not for the fact that he had other things to attend to, a clan and none too shabby little empire that required his attention.  
  
In his office though he found himself unable to think of anything but the prone body lay waiting for him, the fact that Asher was spread out in his bed, lifeless and flawless. Oh yes to him the vampire was flawless, strength and sorrow sculpted by the divine and perfected by tragedy, Asher appeared Aphrodite’s greatest masterpiece.   
  
Narcissus knew very well what people thought of him, their assumptions of why Asher fascinated him so much in their minds boiling down to little more than perverse fetishism, a sexualised variant of the morbid curiosity that led people to gawk at traffic accidents. Not that he cared, that was their tragedy, that they were doomed be so bland and without imagination that anything outside their narrow little sphere of normality became something freakish. That they couldn’t see those scars as the perfect outer expression of an inner rawness, couldn’t appreciate that he might love them in the same way that others loved his wounded, steely gaze was to Narcissus quite sad.  
  
Unable to concentrate on anything else his mind flitted back and forth to various points of the previous evening. How surprised Asher had looked when he had begged against the blindfold, unable to quite hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his sensual mouth as he finally set it down. Yes, him! Begged! He had surprised himself with that one though for different reasons entirely. He never begged and he never cried and yet within hours Asher had brought him to both in such frenzied abandon as he hadn’t felt for years. Nothing that night had seemed too much though, nothing near close enough to sate him, not until his body was bruised to the full spectrum of mauves of violets; flushed and slick with blood and sweat. When he’d hit that blissful, weightless point of transcendence his tears had been rendered simply another bodily fluid, another sacrifice to the gods of passion. Another surrender to Asher, taken along with his body and blood. Blood that he had never allowed any vampire to claim directly.   
  
Not that Asher was the first to taste him, no. His potent alpha’s blood was quite the incentive to vampires and on occasion he’d sliced his skin and allowed his immortal submissive partners a few teasing droplets, a warm rivulet from his patent boots if they’d been especially good and begged sufficiently nicely (an experience he was sure neither he nor Jean Claude would soon forget, whatever he might have professed the night before). But no… he’d never allowed the prick of fangs… until he was confronted by the shining embodiment of heavenly ivory and aristocratic gold. Then…well, as Oscar Wilde would say the curves of Asher’s lips had rewritten history.   
  
By the early afternoon he could resist his sleeping temptation no longer and dropped everything to return, approaching the bed as one would approach not a tomb but a shrine.  
  
The reaction he had to Asher upon second sight was far different to his first instinct upon witnessing his ‘death’. There was something mystical and deeply sensual about the entire set up, the fact that in this moment Asher was his possession in a way that only a sculpture or an object might be, this golden and godlike figure that struck him fairy tale like, invoking old myths of Juliet asleep in her tomb to await her Romeo, Sleeping Beauty with the spindle’s puncture still glistening at her finger, or Snow white with apple still in hand.   
  
Only now it was the golden prince awaiting that one kiss, the kiss that would restore him to life… or not. Ultimate power or the illusion of it at least, the fantasy that a lover could live by his will to make it so, even if it seemed in the passing hours that he like the fabled hero had a century and not half an afternoon to wait.   
  
The afternoon passed and he used it well, running his hands over the other’s body with a selfishness one simply could not show with the living. When touching another being there was always a certain mindfulness of the effect the contact would have upon them, if they would like it but this was pure and utter self-gratification, each brush of fingertips covetous and indulgent.  
  
Not to say he was rough with the other. No, quite the contrary he was deeply gentle, like a little girl playing with a porcelain doll he stroked delicately for no reason other than his own pleasure, revelling in his possession of the other as he grazed hands and lips over him, fondling him freely, this sleeping angel, toying with his scars with an expression of quiet joy, content to play until dusk.   
  
While the other lay in death he could do so many things; twirl hair of spun gold between his petite fingers, and straddle the other’s hips, rubbing himself up and down the length of that sleeping form with a light moan at those contrasting sensations of the other’s skin against his own, scarred and unmarked skin creating a tactile as well as visual sensuality greater than either could ever achieved alone, sweet melody and fiery bass thrown together to create a deep and passionate symphony that seemed to vibrate the chords of the Oba’s own soul.  
  
It soon proved to be too much though. Every brush of their bodies tormented the downy, near invisible hairs along Narcissus’ body, caressed it with the perfect mimicry of silk and leather combined until the fairytale became something darker though just as enticing. Restraint was ripped away alongside with all his purer intentions at that temptation and before long his rhythmatic gliding became breathless thrusting. Aroused beyond measure by this stolen pleasure he crushed his body against the other’s with soft groans of satisfaction, lips strained to press pale and pastel lips as he rocked his hips against the supple planes of that sculptured stomach.  
  
Only at the point of his stolen climax was his beast allowed to bleed into his passion, his fingernails and teeth finally permitted to imprint into marble flesh along with his fierce growl. Not Asher, not Angel, not mon Seigneur as he had been commanded to call him the night before but simply an instinctive and abandoned cry of 'Mine!'  
  
For a while he just lay there, gasping and sated by this illicit contact, but at last he managed to pull himself away long enough to fetch a cold cloth, pressed first to his own glistening brow before being turned with devoted patience to wiping the other clean. He took his time naturally, singing old love songs and soft lullabies to his unaware lover, quoting half remembered lines of poetry as he covered every inch of his front with light kisses. Each line seemed written to his Asher; he was muse enough to inspire the poignancy of Percy Shelley, the epic passion of William Shakespeare, the purity of Emily Dickinson or the melancholia of Robert Frost equally.   
  
As the day passed Narcissus grew more and more enamoured with this liberty, this utter freedom. In the evening Asher might awaken in regret and run back to his immortal companion but whatever happened he had possessed the epitome of his concept of perfection for an entire day, that he had captured an angel for his own enough if he could not keep him.  
  
The steady ticking of the clock brought the sad realisation of this and quietly he said his goodbyes, confessing to the motionless vampire that he loved him and had upon first sight, that in the madness of the moment he supposed he always might, but there was a finality to it, rather than the glowing joy of earlier hours. Was it wrong to want to keep him like this, that he could remain his forever, that he would never leave? Inspired suddenly he wanted to buy the other a glass casket. Just like snow white, a stone tablet with a crystal casing. Had the fairy tale prince felt like this, he wondered. Had he been so love struck that he feared to wake the princess in case she might raise and vanish into the sunset without him? Was it selflessness that inspired him to kiss her to wakening, or had he been heartbroken yet unable to resist?   
  
When dusk finally approached Narcissus lay upon his front against the vampire’s pale chest, tracing the uneven path that scars had left, his lips hovering an inch above the other’s he waited to claim that first breath that would mark the other’s revival, praying for his own happy ending.


End file.
